Not tonight. He smiled back.
He might be considered an arrogant ass by many, but no one could accuse him of lacking in manners. Even his questionable childhood hadn’t beaten those out of him—much as his father might have tried.
It was hardly her fault he wasn’t up for it. She had appeal aplenty, if surgically enhanced assets and peroxide hair were your thing.
But tonight was about work.
And work was work.
Sex was sex.
Never should the two be mixed. Not if you wanted to stay focused and come out on top.
He watched as she weaved her way back through the intimate arrangement of tables, breaking his gaze to scan again the people occupying the circular floor space of the exclusive rooftop venue. Andrews had chosen it for convenience, it being located only two blocks down from his London HQ.
Very convenient for Andrews—not so sodding convenient for him. He rolled his shoulders and rechecked his watch.
What the hell was he doing?
He should’ve left ten minutes after the hour, not sat there like some obedient monkey.
But then, he wasn’t there simply to catch up with the man he was in the process of buying out. He was there to be introduced to Andrews’ business partner—soon-to-be his partner—Jennifer Hayes, before they signed on the dotted line.
Not that the introduction would make any difference; the deal was as good as done. But professional courtesy made him stay. That and the fact he was curious to meet her—the exec who’d turned a business into the largest successful start-up the industry had seen in years.
He was convinced Andrews hadn’t been responsible for it. It was a wonder the man could still see straight, with his mounting gambling debts and outside work attentions. And then there was the drink problem. No one had confirmed it, but Marcus was sure he had one. He knew the signs well enough, thanks to dear old Dad.
So, yes, he doubted Andrews had done a full day’s work in years—and that meant one thing: Miss Hayes was the one carrying the company; she was the one he was effectively buying into.
He’d read her profile, noticeably devoid of any pictures, and figured her to be late thirties, early forties. A woman with shrewd business acumen, a bearing that bordered on cold, and a definite force in the boardroom—all of which he’d respect her for. So long as they were on the same page.
It intrigued him that he hadn’t come across any pictures. Not even a professionally enhanced shot used to support all those public accolades. Maybe she didn’t go in for that kind of vanity. Or maybe Andrews did all that for her. He was certainly everywhere. Even the Forbes article he’d thrust into his hands at a charity auction last month, when he’d put forward his proposition, had highlighted the success of the business but featured Andrews alone, his greased back hair and cocky grin filling half the page.
The memory of that expression goaded Marcus further now as he waited and waited, fingers drumming on the tabletop, his patience hitting breaking point.
Seriously—enough was enough. The papers would be taken care of in less than twenty-four hours regardless. He might as well meet her then.
Tugging at the cuffs of his shirt, he made to stand up just as the cables of the glass elevator started to shift. New arrivals?
He settled back and waited for them to come into view.
It wasn’t Andrews. That was immediately obvious. The small, balding lift attendant was being dwarfed by a statuesque redhead who made even the impressive lift look small. He wasn’t the only one noticing either. Her hair was pulling every eye in the room. Its cascading waves ran down her back, glinting in the ambient light, impossible to ignore.
Its dramatic colour was a striking contrast to the black dress that clung to her curves before halting modestly at the knee. His gaze dropped lower still, to her exposed calves, to the subtle shimmer that teased with the possibility of stockings. And then came her shoes, her severe black stilettos...
Heat assaulted his groin.
Fuck me.
He wasn’t going anywhere. Not just yet. Andrews could have the extra time for free...
* * *
Jennifer glanced at her watch and cursed under her breath. Eight-thirty. She was late. She hated being late.
But then, what did Tony expect, calling her at the eleventh hour and asking that she meet him for drinks? The blasted guy should know better than most what kind of workload she had.
Hell, who was she kidding? He couldn’t give a shit what her to-do list looked like. Truth was, he was the cause of most of it. His increasing absence these last couple of weeks was pushing her to the brink and sending her stress levels through the roof. And yet here it came, that little voice in her head...
He has so much going on...he needs you...his fam ily needs you...
But, hell, her family needed her too—her mother and her sister. Not just financially, but physically, and he was stretching her so thin.
But you owe him. He doesn’t owe you. There’s the difference.
She let go of a slow breath, easing the tension out with it, and gave the lift attendant a polite smile of gratitude. He returned it to her chest and she sighed anew. Seriously?
Stepping past him, she adjusted the deep V in her wrap-around dress and cast her eyes over the softly lit room. Where are you, Tony?
His gregarious personality was enough to project a homing beacon, and the room was decidedly absent of it. Most people were split into couples or foursomes—all save for one man. Her breath caught, a peculiar awareness taking hold.
He sat at a table beside the glass wall. A great seat from which to enjoy the far-reaching cityscape below, although his eyes showed no interest in the vista. No, they were well and truly pinned on her, projecting an intensity that had her skin prickling with such thrill.
Hell, she wanted to stride straight over—the urge was almost making her do just that—but sense prevailed. Tony wanted to see her. Hopefully he could explain away his crazy behaviour, and put her mind at rest over the future.
Giving a small sigh, she headed for the bar. A drink—that was what she needed. Anything to take the edge off.
Slipping onto a bar stool, she crossed her legs and replaced her clutch with the leather-clad drinks menu.
‘Good evening, Miss Hayes, what can I get you?’
She looked up to find Darren, the head bartender, approaching with a smile, his hands busy drying off a glass. She returned his smile easily and scanned the list, honing in on a vodka martini and figuring that had to be strong enough.
He cocked an eyebrow when she made her request. ‘Shaken, not stirred, madame?’
His Scottish-accented Bond impression had her laughing, and the sound was alien to her ears. It had to be weeks—months, even—since she’d had a proper giggle. Maybe she was the one in need of a good shake, never mind the drink.
‘However you recommend it.’
‘You sure?’ He raised both brows. ‘It’s pretty strong.’
He knew her too well. She didn’t do spirits. A spritzer was her usual drink of choice. But a spritzer just wasn’t going to cut it. Not tonight. It wasn’t just Tony, it was her increasing concern over her mother too. She was getting worse and there was nothing Jennifer could do to stop it.
Her heart fluttered painfully and she pushed the thought